


as i sing

by desertchorus



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Blood, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 19:05:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11214345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desertchorus/pseuds/desertchorus
Summary: he can't be left alone for too long. it happens again and again.





	as i sing

the feeling clung to the interior of his chest.

like-

like-

the words clogged somewhere between his brain stem and his throat-

 

his jaw is clenched. the sheetrock is cracked.

it just hurt.

 

no poetic meaning, no beautiful irony or symmetry or justice of any kind. he found himself in the position of another kid with a broken brain, no rhyme or purpose nor reason compelling his mind to destroy itself.

was it the smoke sitting in his lungs? the disdain of his parents during his childhood? was it the thick lines of collagen that invaded his limbs?

 

the ceiling fan creaks. his legs move him from his bedroom.

 

it was there, with claws between the bars of his ribcage. he wanted so desperately to help out whatever’s in there, to cut open his sternum with the razor sitting on the edge of the empty bathtub. let his torrent of cold blood wash it to safety.

the idea of purity crosses the front of his skull. he disregards it. the thing in his chest is impatient.

there’s a bitter laugh somewhere between staring at the razor for a number of minutes and reaching for another cigarette. the smell reaches his nose. he doesn’t bring it to his mouth.

 

it sits on the sink and burns.

 

he grasps the razor. it’s cold. smooth. sharp. he doesn’t feel it.

there’s nowhere left that’s not marked. he has no qualms with layering his work. the thighs could use a freshening up. white and purple and red perpendicular lines.

pain isn’t something he bothers masking in his lonely apartment. scratching of nails against the bathtub’s edges and hisses between teeth. his fingers register the cold of the blade, the sting seeping into his flesh.

an odd number of lacerations drip freely onto the tiling. he can only bring himself to run the pads of his fingers through the blood, feeling it cling to everything it comes in contact with. with the same hand he rubs away the tears collecting around his eyes. saltwater and red streak through the purple exhaustion under his eyes.

(not that he can see that. he covered all of the mirrors months ago.)

he picks up the cigarette. the paper sticks to his lips. sitting against the open window now. one still-bleeding leg dangles over. he doesn’t bother holding onto the edge, maybe gravity will make a decision for him.

 

the stars watch him from so far away.

 

movement below, figures in the dim lamplight. a breeze carries the smell of exhaust and human life. he’s never wished to be among those people, moving in the same set of actions day after day. monotonous examples of life.

 

cars pass. the moon sighs.

 

a droplet falls from his toes. his phone sounds from a room away, and somehow he finds himself drawn to the buzzing.

 

tyler: you seemed kinda off earlier

tyler: do you want to talk?

 

he decides dying can wait until tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> early morning writing again. seems to be that the only time i ever do anything is when im sleep deprived and a few steps from throwing myself out of a third story window.  
> stay alive, please. sometimes it turns out to be worth it.


End file.
